Tomorrow
by CycloneT
Summary: "I don't play games, Lizzie," he warned. "That's all you do," she retorted.


**AN**: It's been a while, but Red called me back to fandom.

XxX

**Tomorrow**

"Where do you think you're going?"

The words were quiet, non-threatening. Playful even. But the tone . . . the tone was something else entirely. Liz's stomach clenched then knotted then clenched again at the undercurrents at play in his question. She paused and tried not to notice the concern in his eyes. This was about _her_, not him, and she didn't want him to hijack her thought process so he could circle her back to where he wanted her to be. Always the master manipulator, and she shouldn't ever forget that.

"Away. Not sure. Just not here."

"Ah," he nodded, as if her presence or absence was of no consequence to him at all.

Bastard. She hated him a little for that, wanted to strike at him, make him bleed and leave him raw. See how he liked it. She turned to go but his voice reeled her back.

"Will you be returning?"

Would she? Maybe. Probably. But she still stung, still wanted him to feel a little of what she was feeling. Wanted him to be the one off kilter, for once. Wanted to make him sweat, to see what the unflappable Raymond Reddington looked like when someone else was controlling the buttons. Wanted him to _feel_ those buttons being pushed and pulled and twisted until he was as tied up in knots as she was, and wasn't _that_ fucked up?

She gave him a shrug.

"I don't play games, Lizzie," he warned.

"That's _all_ you do," she retorted.

"Not with you," he countered softly. "Never with you."

That was true. That was _true_, damn him. "Damnit, Red."

"You need some time. Take a few hours. A day. But no more than that."

Who was he to dictate how much time she needed? Who died and made him the all-knowing God of her emotional gauntlet? Just who the hell did he think he was, giving her ultimatums and time limits? "Don't push me," she snapped.

"Don't make me."

"Red - "

"No, Lizzie. This is too important. You go, figure out what you need to figure out, but don't prolong it. When you have your answer, when you know what it is you want, how you want to proceed, you come to me. Don't make me come and find you."

Another warning. Because he would. There was no place in the world she could go where he couldn't find her, none. And that thought didn't disturb her nearly as much as it should. _So_ fucked up.

"I'll be back," she said warily, "I just need . . ."

Time. Distance. To be gone, away from him for a moment or an eon, no, not an eon, definitely not an eon. A day, maybe, so she could catch her breath and remember who she was. Who _he_ was. Because he had a way of making her forget that he was number four on the FBI's most wanted list for a reason. Of making her not care that he was a criminal who was capable of, well, anything, really.

He nodded, like he understood what she needed more than she did. Presumptuous asshole. But then he smiled, that soft, gentle smile that was all hers, and she had to give him something more than vague assurances because the thought of him in knots and bleeding was not nearly as appealing as it had been moments before. "Tomorrow. I'll be back tomorrow."

"Well then," he said, his soft smile morphing into a more self-satisfied version of itself.

And she would come back, because she didn't know how to stay away. Despite his history and her job, despite the winds of change that swept him into her life not actually changing him much at all, and despite his oh-so-complicated and far-sighted agenda that he still _would not_ completely share with her, (_all in good time, Lizzie, all in good time_) she wanted him. Badly. And really, if she could figure out how to be fine with all the secrets and half-truths that he wouldn't share with her _'for your own protection'_, who cared how fucked up it was? How fucked up _they_ were? It was no one else's business what, or who, she did, and if anyone probed too deeply Red would probably just have them killed.

Oh, God, Red would probably have them killed.

She should care about that, but she didn't. Well, maybe a little, but not enough to leave and not come back. She'd changed, or he'd changed her; it didn't really matter anymore. What mattered was that it felt _good_ to be around him. To be surrounded by him. Protected by him, although she'd never admit that one out loud. Admired and respected, and maybe even loved by him. She needed that. Couldn't lose that. Couldn't lose _him_ giving her that.

Red cleared his throat, and she realised that she'd been standing in the middle of the bedroom for some time, having her epiphany, staring at him staring back at her. He suddenly flipped onto his back and slipped one arm under his head, the crisp white sheet billowing with his movements, before settling to ghost the form that hours earlier had been her own personal playground.

"Until tomorrow then, sweetheart."

End.


End file.
